Coming Home
by ladyrip
Summary: What if Jasper hadn't met Maria and become a vampire? What would his homecoming after the war have been like? One-shot in For the Love of Jasper contest.
1. Chapter 1

"**For the Love of Jasper" One-Shot Contest **

**Title: **Coming Home

**Pen name: **ladyrip

**Existing work: **Mars Rising

**Primary Players: **Jasper

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Jasper or anything else Twilight. I just thought  
I'd explore a little "What if…?" from his history.

**To see other entries in the "For the Love of Jasper" contest, please visit the C2:  
www(dot)fanfiction(dot)net/community/For_the_Love_of_Jasper_Contest/72564/**

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__July 1865_

He was coming home.

It had been four and a half long years since he had seen his family and the farm. During that time, he had traveled around Texas and Louisiana, leading Confederate troops under his command. He had always had a gift for influencing others and readily learned strategy in battle which had helped him to rise quickly, gaining the rank of Major before he was twenty. Although he had been wounded on several occasions—the scars crisscrossing his chest stood out as white testimony of his numerous brushes with death—he had somehow managed to survive where so many others had not.

Now, cresting the hill overlooking the valley of his birth, he pulled his horse up short. His breath caught in his throat as his eyes scanned the lowlands, taking in the house he had grown up in, the fields that provided his family's livelihood, the stable that was home to the horses he'd learned to ride on, and the lake where he had spent many hot summers swimming.

All still intact.

So many times, when word of the fighting and decimation back home had reached him in Texas, he had worried and prayed that his family would be able to escape the devastation so many others had been subjected to in the War Between the States.

It was almost twilight, the sun having dipped below the horizon moments before, and he clicked his tongue at the mare, propelling her forward. He was anxious to reach the house before full darkness fell, and within the span of a few minutes, he was across the valley and reining in at the front of the house. He hoped they would all be there, healthy and happy despite the trials of the last four and a half years.

Tying his horse's reins to the split rail fence that fronted the house, he took a deep breath and marched up the steps, his booted heels making soft thuds on the weathered wood. He gripped the brass door handle … and hesitated. They didn't know he was coming. He didn't want to frighten them by simply barging in, unannounced—especially at this time of day. He flexed his gloved fingers before making a fist and rapping sharply three times on the door.

The wait seemed interminable.

Maybe he should have just entered.

Then finally, finally the door swung open, and there stood his younger brother. They both stood frozen in place, staring at each other: the elder drinking in the features of the younger who had matured into manhood, baby fat hardening into lean muscle; the younger looking, wide-eyed, as if he were seeing an apparition, a face he'd never thought to see again.

"Jasper?" came the whispered voice, hoping yet disbelieving.

Without a word, the soldier lifted his right hand and pulled his hat from his sweaty blond curls as he clapped his left arm around his not-so-little brother's shoulders. His brother stiffened, still not believing what was quickly becoming undeniable. Then he snapped out of his stupor and crushed his beloved older brother in a strong, almost painful embrace.

"Francis," Jasper choked out, blinking back the tears that stung his eyes. He buried his face in his brother's neck, overcome with emotion and unable to say more than those two syllables.

And then came the voice he had ached to hear for four and a half long years. The voice he had once imagined as he lay on a cot in a hospital tent, sure that he was about to close his eyes for the last time. The voice that was softness and love and church on Sunday and … home.

"Francis? Who is it?" his mother called from the parlor.

"Let me tell her," Francis whispered, pulling back reluctantly but keeping one hand on his elder brother's broad shoulder. Jasper nodded, silently following Francis to the doorway. He smiled as Francis let go, stepped over the threshold, and said, "Mama, it's Jasper. He's come home."

He heard his mother's soft gasp followed by, "It can't be!" just as he stepped through the doorway. Her hand flew to her mouth as she stared at him, her body angled toward the open doorway behind her, almost afraid to believe the sight before her eyes.

"Mama," he said, stripping off his gloves and tossing them on the spindle-legged table as he came around the settee and dropped to his knees at her feet. The floodgates let loose then, and their tears mingled as he folded her in his arms, pressing his wet cheek to hers. He held her as her fragile body shuddered and shivered with the force of her sobs, his broad callused palms running up and down her back. "Shh," he crooned. "I'm home, Mama. I'm home."

Jasper heard a rustle of fabric and felt a light hand on his shoulder. He shifted to the left, still keeping his arms around his mother. Looking up, he met his little sister's tear-streaked face and reached out to wrap an arm around her waist.

"Emma," he breathed. She gasped for breath as he pulled her to his side, the heavy sobs wracking her slender frame.

And then he looked back at his mother, realizing that there should've been one more family member to greet.

"Where's Papa?" he asked, fearing that he already knew the answer.

Three choked sobs met his question, and he looked around the parlor, the black shrouds over the mirrors and his mother's and sister's midnight gowns finally registering in his consciousness. He squeezed the women in his family tighter, offering and taking what little comfort he could.

"When?" he asked, when he could finally speak.

"Four days ago," Francis whispered, his hand on Mrs. Whitlock's shoulder. "He'd been sick for a couple of months and just … just didn't get better."

Jasper sighed. If only he had left four days earlier… He'd had the chance but had offered to stay behind and close down the fort. In that moment, all the victories he had won seemed hollow and pointless, more so than the day he had received word that his troops were to pull out and the fort was to be abandoned.

If only he had known…

So many _if onlys_ dotted his past. He had learned through hard experience that there was no use in dwelling on _if onlys_. No amount of wishing, working, or wondering could bring back the lost opportunities. And a man could go mad constantly rethinking his actions instead of dealing with the consequences placed before him. Oh, but how he wished he could have _this one_ back. Just this one … of all the bad choices, he thought he would gladly give anything to be able to see his father one more time.

Jasper reached out his right hand to Francis, and the two of them held tight, circling their arms around their women. The broken little family stayed that way for some time, crying and comforting each other as the evening faded into night, the sky taking on the somber colors of their mourning.

***

Jasper rubbed his eyes as the sunlight streamed in through the drapes, and he wondered briefly—in those first moments of waking consciousness—where he was. And then he remembered: he was home … with his family. Well, with most of his family.

He sat up slowly and squinted against the bright morning light, brushing his unruly locks off his forehead. He thought back to the night before. At some point he had risen stiffly from his knees to see to his mare's comfort, Francis accompanying him with a lantern to the stable. His father's horses had long been gone, and the stable was in a mild state of disrepair. His father…

He stood then and clutched his chest, the pang of loss still sharp and new. He scrubbed his face with his hands, wishing he could erase the memory of his mother's face when he had asked where his father was.

Today he would visit his father's grave.

If only he had been here to hold his mother through the funeral…

_Enough with the _if onlys, _Whitlock,_ he chastised himself.

At least she'd had Francis and Emma with her. At least she wasn't left without family as so many other widows had been.

Jasper walked barefoot to the vanity and splashed his face with the tepid water from the pitcher and basin, scrubbing his face once again.

He pulled on his uniform foregoing the heavy wool jacket, reminding himself to ask Francis for a change of clothes. They would be around the same size now. He slid his feet into his boots and stomped a couple of times to secure the fit before leaving the room of his youth and going downstairs to face the day. Four and a half years in the army had taught him to take each day as it came and be prepared for anything.

And that was exactly how he would meet this new phase of his life. Being in command came naturally to him now, and he knew he was up to the task, little as he wanted to assume the responsibilities. As a youth under his father's thumb, he had longed for the day when he would be head of the household—his _own_ household—which had prompted him to join up against his father's wishes when the call for soldiers came. He had hoped the army would allow him to prove himself in ways that his father never had, and he'd not been disappointed. Prove himself he had, more times over than he really cared to remember now.

And he would give anything to go back to the time when he was just the older brother, with only the responsibilities dished out by his father, the head of the household.

_No regrets,_ he reminded himself. _What's done is done. Take what you're given and make the best of it._

***

With only their feet for transportation, the family had decided to bury their beloved patriarch not in the traditional family cemetery on the other side of the lake but beside the stable which had housed his beloved thoroughbreds for so many years. It was to this site that Jasper now trudged, slapping his hat absently against the side of his leg.

He stopped when he reached the freshly turned mound of earth with the wooden cross sticking out of the ground at its head. He would have to see about getting a more permanent marker for his father's final resting place.

He stood there for a few minutes, just staring down at the six by three foot pile of dirt. No stranger to death and burial, Jasper held his emotions—which had flowed so freely the night before—in check. The morning sun gently warmed his mop of blond curls. After a time, he sank down on his haunches, getting closer to the man who had given him life and taught him its earliest lessons.

"Papa," he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Papa, please don't hate me. I did what I thought was right." He paused to swallow against the lump in his throat. "I hope you weren't too disappointed in me. I've tried to live up to the lessons you taught me. I just … I wanted to take responsibility. I wanted to make you proud of me." He ran his fingers down the wood of the cross and trailed them over the bare earth. "I guess I'll never know if I succeeded."

"You did," came a soft voice from behind him.

Jasper turned, startled to find himself not alone.

His mother walked toward him, her black dress soaking up the morning sunshine, a sheer black veil over her head and shoulders. She stopped when she reached him and placed a dainty, gloved hand on his shoulder. He turned back toward the cross and nodded, not sure he believed her.

"You sent home letters and we heard through the army dispatches all about the victories and promotions you won. We knew you were conducting yourself as a true Whitlock would." She squeezed his shoulder gently. "And he was proud. We both were."

He nodded again, one step closer to believing.

"He never hated you."

He reached up to cover her hand with his.

"He didn't understand at first. But he made peace with your decision. He knew it was time for you to be a man. The man he's raised you to be."

Jasper squeezed her hand in thanks, and they stood there for a few minutes longer, gazing down where the man they both loved now lay, both wishing that things had turned out so much differently.

***

Two months later, Jasper sat behind his father's desk—his desk—in the study, sorting through the stack of bills and other legal documents. It had taken the better part of those two months to sort out the state of their livelihood and to come up with a plan to repay the debts his father had taken on and which were now his. He sighed at the irony of it. He had run away with the army to escape the responsibility of his father's life only to be faced with it four and a half years later.

As he sifted through the mail, he came across a heavy white envelope. Breaking the seal he opened it up and extracted an invitation to a barbecue in two weeks at the home of one of their neighbors. It seemed that Daniel Grayson, the only son of that family to return from the war, had fallen in love with a Northern girl and brought her home, and they were celebrating the impending nuptials. Although they were still in mourning, he supposed it would be alright for their family to attend. He penned a quick response, accepting the invitation and placed it on the pile of mail to be posted. He would be sure to tell his mother and siblings about it at dinner that night. He knew Emma at least would be excited.

Jasper spent the better part of the day wrapped up in business matters before he finally decided he had had enough. His eyes flickered to the invitation and he wondered if he was ready to join that part of the world. He had slipped almost seamlessly into the running of the farm and household, but social gatherings were still outside his new civilian experience. He sighed heavily, glancing once more at the white linen paper, and took himself down to the stable to go for a ride to clear his head.

***

"Major Whitlock."

The sweet southern voice behind him sent a shiver down his spine. He recognized it.

Unfortunately.

"Just Jasper, Miss Hamilton," he corrected, his mellow voice barely audible under the noise of the other guests at the barbecue.

"Oh, come now, Major. Let's not be modest," she drawled, giving him a sly smile and slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow.

"It's not modesty, Miss Hamilton," he responded, sliding her hand out from under his arm. "I'm a civilian now. No more army titles."

He turned to face her, instantly recognizing her perfectly pinned blonde curls and rouged cheeks and lips. She had always been meticulous about her appearance. Once he had thought she was perfect, but now he knew she was simply artificial.

"Well, I would think you'd be proud of your military prowess," she said, sliding her finger down the buttons of his shirt. "Call me Melanie," she added.

"I only did my duty, Miss Hamilton," he replied, wondering how he was going to extricate himself from his one-time lover's clutches.

"Yes, you were always about duty, weren't you, Jasper?" she said. "And it's Mrs. Thompkins now."

"You married Bart Thompkins?" he asked in surprise, unable to picture her on the arm of a man a good twenty years her senior. He glanced around the Grayson's back lawn, scanning the crowd for her husband.

"No thanks to you," she spat, turning her back on him. She waved her fan languidly in front of her face.

He scowled. "Me?"

"If you hadn't gone and joined the army and got yourself shipped off to Louisiana…" She left the thought hanging.

Jasper frowned. There had been a time when he might have asked for her hand … before he had learned that she had spread her charms among his best friends as well. And it seemed that she still thought he would've married her even though he knew the truth about her. He shook his head.

"Bart Thompkins," he said again.

"He was the best offer I had after all you young things ran off to war."

He grunted softly in acknowledgement that the war had indeed taken many of the young eligible bachelors away from the ladies, sometimes forever.

"And now I'm a widow," she said, making sure he knew she was free. There was no sorrow in her voice, only invitation.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Mrs. Thompkins," he said, patting her arm lightly. "If you'll excuse me…"

He smiled as he heard a rustle of fabric and a soft stomp behind him. She always did have a flair for the dramatic.

***

Jasper let himself into the Grayson's stable, pausing to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim interior. He strode slowly to his mare's stall and slipped inside, crooning softly to her. He patted her neck and side then smoothed his hand down her glossy coat.

Running into Melanie Hamilton—Thompkins, he reminded himself—had brought back memories of his youth and his long-dead dreams of the future. For the past four years, Jasper hadn't allowed himself to dream about the future. He had seen too much of war and death and shattered dreams to allow himself to hope for more than the current day would give him. Before the war—before he had found out what she was really like—he had planned to marry her. He sometimes wondered, although he rarely allowed himself to think about it, if she wasn't part of the reason he had signed up. While he had wanted to be out from under his father's rule, he had also wanted a family and home of his own. Melanie Hamilton had seemed like the perfect match, until the day he heard his two best friends talking about her in the most intimate of ways. Neither of them had seemed bothered by the fact that they had both had her, but at least they had had the grace to be embarrassed when he made his presence known and they realized that he knew their part in her deceit.

For the past two and a half months, he had been going through the motions of his father's life, running that farm and looking after his mother and siblings. Francis was a man in his own right now and could marry if he were so inclined. Emma should have had beaus calling daily, and he supposed the bees stayed away from the flower out of respect for her recent loss. But he knew his brother and sister would likely be moving on to the next phase of their lives sooner than he might want to think about. And where did that leave him?

Alone.

Head of the household.

Caring for his mother.

Not that he minded that last in the least. He loved his mother dearly and would gladly provide and care for her until her dying day. And he had no problem shouldering the responsibility of head of the household. Hadn't he proven himself worthy to take charge for several years in the army?

It was the other condition that plagued his thoughts.

Alone.

Going through the motions of life … alone.

He leaned his head against his mare's side, breathing in her soothing sweaty scent. He had always been at home with the horses. It was always comforting to groom them and to ride them, free and wild.

Just then he heard the creak of the door and the scuff of a shoe on the stone floor, barely muffled by the straw scattered around. He lifted his head and turned around to see who had invaded his equine sanctuary. The swish of a long skirt made him cringe, thinking at first that Melanie had followed him. But then he noticed that the color was different, and the stride was wrong: strong and smooth where Melanie's was quick and prissy.

He lifted his eyes and saw her face in the dim light filtering through the slats of wood.

His intake of breath caused her to halt, and a tiny gloved hand lifted to her mouth.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I didn't know anyone was in here."

There was no hint of the southern drawl he had grown up hearing. Her vowels were short and her consonants almost clipped.

_A Yankee._

"No harm done, Miss …" He let his words trail off, silently asking her name.

"Devereaux. Annabelle Devereaux."

"Miss Devereaux," he repeated, reaching up to tip his hat to her only to realize that he wasn't wearing a hat. He ran his hand through his mess of blond curls. He couldn't seem to stop staring at her, and his eyes roamed over her delicate features: the high cheekbones; small, pert nose; full, soft lips; and wide, dark eyes. In the dark of the stable, he couldn't make out the color of her eyes, but he was still struck by her quiet beauty.

"I don't believe we've met, Mr. …"

"Whitlock," he supplied. "Jasper Whitlock."

Her eyes widened, and he imagined that in the sunlight they might have twinkled. "You're Emma's brother. The Major returned from the frontier."

"Yes, ma'am." He smiled at her description of him. "And you are … ?"

"Going for a ride, Major Whitlock," she said, keeping him guessing as to her relation to their hosts. She turned to the stall across from Jasper's mare and lifted a saddle blanket over the horse's back.

Jasper stepped up behind her and said, "Allow me," as he hefted the saddle from its perch and settled it over the blanket. "And it's just Jasper," he said, cinching the buckle snugly under the horse's belly.

She eyed him appraisingly before smiling and extending her gloved hand. "Jasper," she agreed. "And I'm Belle."

He took her hand gently and lifted it, brushing his lips softly over her knuckles. "A pleasure to meet you, Miss Belle," he murmured.

"Would you care to join me, Jasper?" she invited, slipping the bridle over her mount's nose and sliding the bit into place.

"It would be my pleasure, Miss Belle," he replied, smiling at her in the gloom of the stable.

He made quick work of saddling his mare as she led her gelding out of the stall. He handed her his reins and stepped forward to open the stable doors. The sunlight flooded in, and Jasper caught his breath as he turned to look at her. She was even more beautiful than he had thought, and her sweet voice sang to him as no one's ever had.

As he held her gelding's bridle to allow her to mount, he smiled to himself, almost daring to dream again.


	2. Chapter 2 Unexpected

**_Thanks to everyone who has said nice things about this little fic--especially those who don't normally read Jasper-with-anyone-other-than-Alice fics. Thanks for taking a chance on mine. I hope you won't be disappointed!_**

**DISCLAIMER:** _SM owns Jasper, but since he's the only recognizable character in this fic, I own everything else you see here! Gotta love that! ;)_

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Chapter 2—Unexpected

Jasper clicked his tongue softly, urging his mare to pick up her pace. Annabelle rode ahead of him, her back straight with curls bouncing. He chuckled as he pulled alongside her, his eyes straying down to her shapely calves. He had been startled when she mounted her gelding astride, her long skirt riding up her legs to expose her black half boots and soft grey stockings. Even more startled when she kicked her heels into the gelding's side and called, "Race you!" Dashing to his mare, he'd leapt into the saddle and charged after her, leaving the stable door gaping wide.

Now Annabelle reined her mount to a walk, and Jasper followed suit.

"So where are you from, Miss Belle?"

"Pennsylvania. And you?"

"Texas born and bred," he replied, a hint of pride in his tone.

She smiled and adjusted her grip on the reins slightly, causing the gelding to dance sideways.

"What brings you down South?" Jasper asked.

"Deborah is one of my best friends," she answered.

"Deborah?"

"Daniel's fiancé," she supplied, surprised that he had to ask.

Jasper smiled in understanding. "I see. I haven't had the pleasure of meeting the future Mrs. Grayson yet."

"Well, they're prefect for each other," Annabelle said, adding playfully, "even if he _is_ a Southerner."

"Is that so?"

She chuckled in reply.

"Is it such a bad thing?" he asked softly. "To be a Southerner?"

Annabelle stared at him, her eyes traveling from his down to his shoulders and chest, then to his strong hands as they expertly held the reins and along his well-muscled thighs and calves and back up again.

"Not when a Southerner looks like you," she said boldly, just a hint of pink tinting her high cheekbones.

Jasper couldn't help the laugh that escaped his lips. It'd been too long since he had really laughed like that. She laughed with him, hers a complimentary soprano to his tenor.

"Are all Northern women so bold?"

"Well, I have yet to meet _all_ the women in the North, but I was raised to speak my mind. I suppose that's what comes from having Abolitionist parents," she said.

Jasper lifted one hand to the nape of his neck and ruffled the curls that lay damply on his collar.

"Abolitionists, hm?" he murmured. "So I guess your parents wouldn't take too kindly to you conversing with a Confederate soldier like me." It wasn't a question.

Annabelle tilted her head and the corner of her mouth turned down a bit. She brushed a strand of hair off her cheek and said, "Conversing would be acceptable to them."

"And you?"

She raised a questioning eyebrow. "What about me?"

"How do _you_ feel about a Confederate soldier?"

"_A_ Confederate soldier?"

Jasper ducked his head, suddenly unsure of himself and where their conversation might be heading. He peeked up through his blond lashes, trying to gauge her expression and tone.

"Well…" His voice trailed off, but—never one to back down from a challenge—he steeled his courage and clarified, "_This_ Confederate soldier."

She brushed her curls over her shoulder and said almost too lightly, "I thought you were a civilian now, _Mr._ Whitlock. And I am fairly certain the war is over and the Confederacy is dead."

Again he laughed. She was a spitfire, unlike any other woman in his experience. "Details, Miss Devereaux," he said, his eyes twinkling at their banter. "But the question still remains."

"Indeed, it does, Mr. Whitlock."

"And your answer?"

She looked in his eyes for a moment, faint birdsong and the nearer clink of the bridles the only sounds around them.

"Shall we walk?" she finally said.

He dismounted quickly and walked around to the left of her gelding to help her dismount. She swung her right leg over the horse's head in a flurry of petticoats and slid into his waiting arms, her skirts rising a little higher in her descent.

Jasper's hands closed around her tiny waist and stayed there for several seconds after her feet were firmly on the ground. She shook her skirts into place then turned to pick up her reins, moving out of his grasp.

"Will you answer the question?" he asked, gathering up his own reins and walking beside her.

"I hardly know you, Jasper."

He smiled, pleased that she had returned to using his first name.

"That can be remedied, Belle."

She nodded but glanced away from him.

"What would you like to know about me?" he asked.

They walked a few steps in silence. He was curious what she would ask but didn't want to rush her, so he surveyed the Grayson's property, focusing on the grove of trees twenty yards ahead.

"Did your family keep slaves?" Her soft voice broke the peaceful silence, and Jasper turned to look at her.

"We did," he answered simply.

She waited.

"We have a large farm, and it takes a lot of hands to work it. But we only had around twenty, twenty-five slaves. And we never mistreated them."

"_You_ might not have, but what about your overseer?" His lips moved to form a reply, but she continued, "I cannot tell you how many tales I've heard of slaves raped and beaten by overseers while the owners looked away or went about their business unaware."

Jasper let out a short breath.

"Well, as to that I couldn't really say. I didn't spend much time around them until the last few months before I enlisted."

They walked along in silence, each seeming to wait for the other to say something. And yet, it wasn't uncomfortable at all. Finally, Jasper broke the quiet.

"I was glad when I heard Lincoln had freed the slaves," he admitted softly. "I don't hold with one man having that kind of control over another's life. In the Army…"

Annabelle remained silent when he trailed off, waiting.

Jasper took a deep breath and blew it out. "In the Army, you need commanders or the ranks dissolve into chaos. And on a farm, you need someone in charge to make sure the job gets done right and on time. But for one man to _own_ another—especially because their skin is a different color—" He paused, shaking his head. "I can't abide that," he finished, looking up to see Annabelle frowning, her expression puzzled.

"If you don't believe in slavery…"

"I didn't always feel this way," he said when she left her sentence hanging. "I never gave it a second thought when I was a boy. My papa held slaves, and so did our neighbors. That's just the way it was. But being in the War and seeing how some take advantage of their positions and power… That taught me to look at things a little differently." He paused then said, "Now I'll be looking to hire hands to keep the farm going."

"So why did you join the Confederate Army?"

His answer was simple.

"I'm a Texan. Texas was part of the Confederacy."

She nodded as if she understood.

"Have you ever killed anyone?"

"Yes," he answered, his voice hard, the single word clipped. He could feel her eyes on him. He didn't look at her.

She nodded again.

"What was it like?" she asked after a moment.

Jasper's head snapped around, his eyes locking with hers. He stood rooted to the ground, unable to believe that she would ask such a question. "Killing someone?" he asked then, needed the clarification.

She shook her head, dark curls bouncing. "No. The War."

He let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding, somewhat relieved that she wasn't asking him what it was like to kill someone, yet also somewhat troubled that she would ask about the War. Because really, weren't they almost the same subject?

"You don't really want to kn—"

"I wouldn't have asked if I didn't," she interrupted. "I never do or say anything I don't mean, Jasper."

Sucking in a deep breath, he ran his free hand through his hair. "Annabelle," he whispered, his voice almost choked. "Please don't ask me about the War."

She laid her hand on his arm, an apology frozen on her lips as he turned to face her, his eyes haunted.

"Jasper—"

He shook his head, almost as if to clear the memories inside. "It's alright," he said softly.

Annabelle nodded and held out her hand. "Let's keep walking."

He took her offered hand, and they began to walk again.

"Have you ever been shot?" she asked, continuing her inquisition.

"Yes," he answered, "several times."

"Where?"

Jasper chuckled. "Where _haven't_ I been shot?" he returned.

Annabelle laughed quietly with him before asking the most surprising question.

"May I see?"

Although he wasn't embarrassed about the scars marking his body, he was afraid of the pity he knew he would see in her eyes. During his military service, those scars had often led to short-lived trysts with debutantes and whores who had been impressed by the evidence of his prowess, but he knew Annabelle was not like his past conquests. She had a gentleness the others had not, and he didn't want her pity.

But she was insistent.

"Please?" she pressed.

He sighed and reluctantly dropped her hand to pull up his left pant leg. A small, pink scar the size of a finger digit decorated his calf, leaving that spot hairless and crudely puckered.

"I was lucky it didn't hit the bone," Jasper said. "If it had, they would have taken my leg off," he added, without knowing why he said it.

Annabelle sank down and ran a finger lightly over the ridges of badly healed skin. She looked up at his gasp, startled by the intensity in his eyes. She rubbed her finger over the scar once more before he dropped his pant leg and extended his hand to help her back to her feet.

He cleared his throat and looked away.

"Where else?" she asked.

Jasper raised an eyebrow and shook his head at her. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"I want to see—"

"Why?"

"To understand. To know what it was like—"

"Annabelle…"

"Jasper. Please."

Searching her eyes, he saw no pity. Only curiosity and gentleness. With a sigh, he looped his mare's reins over the saddle horn and smiled as Annabelle did the same with hers before taking a step closer. He slowly began to unbutton his shirt, keeping his eyes on her face. He silently prayed that her calm expression would not turn to revulsion when she saw…

As the lapels of his shirt separated and fell to either side, exposing his chest, Annabelle inhaled softly and stepped even closer. She took in the extent of his injuries, her gaze traveling from the single bullet wound near his right shoulder across each shrapnel scar peppering his chest and stomach. Without really thinking about what she was doing, Annabelle brought both hands up and ran them lightly over each scar, coaxing another, stronger gasp from Jasper's suddenly dry throat.

He gripped her shoulders, intending to set her back and stop her gentle exploration. But before she could protest, he drew her closer, his lips crushing hers, one hand cupping the nape of her neck. His other hand pressed against her lower spine, pulling her against his badly scarred chest, her arms trapped between their bodies.

She could feel the heat from his bare skin through her sleeves. Her involuntary gasp parted her lips briefly, and Jasper pulled back slightly, searching her eyes to gauge her reaction. She took advantage of the space between them to slide her hands up and over his shoulders, her fingers threading themselves into his hair, pulling his lips back to hers.

He immediately parted his lips, sliding them against hers again and again, gently sucking her bottom lip into his mouth. He winced slightly at the sting of her nails when he ran his tongue over the lip now trapped between his teeth. But then her finger rubbed softly where her nails had been, and he couldn't hold back a groan of pleasure.

He murmured her name against her lips and said, "You taste so…" But her lips pressed back to his, cutting off his words, and he lost himself once again in the kiss. His tongue swept over her bottom lip again. She was sweet honey and tangy barbecue and tart lemonade.

_Perfect._

She pressed her body against his, needing to get closer. Jasper kissed her again, praying her layers of skirts would keep his body's reaction hidden from her but not caring enough to pull away. She met him with equal fervor, her lips gently sucking his lower lip into her mouth where her tongue briefly teased him, and she moaned again before pulling back.

He shook his head as if to clear it and whispered her name.

"Yes, Jasper," she replied. He wasn't sure if she was inviting him to speak or giving him permission to continue their kissing and perhaps more. And then she was kissing him again, forcing coherent thoughts from his brain.

On a gasp for breath, he started to ask if she was a virgin but only managed, "Are you—" when she breathed, "Yours. I'm yours, Jasper."

And then he couldn't think, could only feel. And it was a powerful emotion that wrapped around him, silencing any warning that this might not be a good idea. That he might be making a colossal mistake.

He ran his fingers down her back, the laces of her bodice rubbing against his fingertips, making them tingle. He longed to feel her soft skin against them instead. Quickly he found the bow tucked under her bodice and tugged it loose then pulled at her laces until the garment itself slackened around her torso. He stepped back as she raised her arms to allow him to lift her bodice over her head, leaving her in her undergarments and skirt. She reached behind her waist and began to pull the ties of her skirt and petticoat free. When she let them go, they slid down her slender legs into a pool of fabric at her ankles.

Jasper let his eyes travel down her body, taking in the curves of her waist, hips, and thighs. He knew the slimness of her waist was due in part to the white corset around her ribs, but he felt certain that it was more of a fashion necessity than a figure-shaper. His hands twitched, wanting to touch her again, and his eyes glowed with his desire.

"Annabelle," he said, breaking them both out of their trance.

She stepped forward then, her hands sliding against his chest and under his opened shirt. She swiftly slipped it over his shoulders and down his arms. And then her fingers found his scars again, touching gently, reverently, before she lowered her head to press her lips to the largest one at his shoulder. He jerked involuntarily, and she peered at him from under her eyelashes, worried she might have done something wrong. He smiled to reassure her and brought his own hands to her back to tug the laces of her corset free. In little more than an instant, it had joined the pile of clothing at Annabelle's feet.

It was Annabelle's turn to shiver as Jasper ran his hands up her ribs, his long fingers splayed over her back. A gasp escaped her lips when his thumbs grazed the sides of her breasts. Unable to wait any longer, Jasper pulled her to him and crushed his lips against hers again, not bothering to be gentle this time. She met his kiss with equal fervor, her hands kneading the muscles of his back as she tried to get closer and closer to him.

Her hands strayed downward, brushing against the back of his waistband. He inhaled sharply as she ran her fingers around his waist to his stomach.

"How do I—?"

Jasper smiled against her lips, quickly slipping the buttons of his trousers through the buttonholes and helping her push them down his legs. He lifted her up then and sank to his knees, lowering her to the ground atop the pile of discarded clothing. She threaded her fingers through his hair and brought his face down to hers so she could kiss him again. Her lips brushed his lightly at first, and he held back to see what she would do. Her fingers flexed into fists, urging him closer as she deepened the kiss, running her tongue across his lips.

He deftly slid the buttons of her chemise through the holes and slipped the thin cotton garment off her arms. Her pantaloons were next, untied and down off her legs before she could take another breath. He paused a moment to appreciate the beauty of her naked body, his hands and eyes smoothing over her curves. A smile played at his lips as he watched her shiver with pleasure at his touch.

When her hands left his hair, he nearly protested. But then she touched the sensitive flesh of his waist again, pulling another gasp from him as she tugged loose the ties of his drawers to push them down. Her fingers kneaded the muscles of his thighs made strong by the years and years of riding horseback.

"Annabelle," Jasper whispered as he positioned himself over her, peppering soft kisses across her cheeks and nose, finally coming to her mouth again. "Are you—?"

"I'm sure, Jasper," she said, cutting off his question once again as she arched into his body. He felt her legs come up around his hips and kissed her deeply again as he slid into her warmth, pausing to allow her body to adjust to his. And then they were moving together, finding their rhythm quickly and smoothly until the pleasure was beyond anything either had ever felt before. As the maelstrom of passion overtook them, they cried out together, their bodies shaking with the aftermath of their climaxes.

Jasper cupped her cheek in his palm and placed a soft kiss on her lips before moving slightly to Annabelle's side. She turned onto her side, not wanting to be separated from his body. She snuggled into his chest and smiled as his arm came around her shoulders. With a contented sigh, Jasper drifted off to sleep with the sound of Annabelle's soft, even breathing in his ear.

~ * ~

As the sun began its descent to the west, Jasper and Annabelle returned their horses to the stable and walked toward the rest of the party guests. They kept glancing sideways at each other, trying to keep the silly grins from their faces. It took everything Jasper had not to take her hand and kiss her senseless again. But they had discussed the issue and, while neither of them regretted their tryst in the meadow, they had decided it would be best not to announce it to the world just yet. Annabelle was scheduled to stay with the Grayson's until after the wedding in a few months which would give Jasper plenty of time to court her.

Annabelle's step quickened, and she turned to tell Jasper, "Come and meet Deborah."

Jasper smiled and followed her eagerly, glad to meet her friend and offer Daniel his congratulations.

They came to a halt at the edge of a small gathering on the back steps of the house.

"Deborah," Annabelle said, gaining her friend's attention. "Have you met Mr. Jasper Whitlock, yet?"

"No," said a pretty blonde, turning as Annabelle indicated the tall man at her side.

"We met in the stable," Annabelle explained.

Jasper took Deborah's hand and kissed it briefly in greeting. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Deborah. Daniel's a lucky man." He nodded to the groom-to-be and said, "Congratulations, Daniel."

The two men shook hands and began to catch up with each other. The back door opened suddenly, and Jasper smiled as he saw his mother come out onto the porch. She returned his silent greeting, stepping forward quietly as to not interrupt their conversation.

Just then Annabelle turned toward the door and saw Jasper's mother. "Aunt Meg!" she exclaimed.

_Aunt Meg?_

* * *

**_I'll bet you weren't expecting _that_, were you? _**


End file.
